


your mess is mine

by IWasMeantToFeel



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, F/F, Help Line AU, Hurt/Comfort, Samaritan!Chloe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 16:25:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14048217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWasMeantToFeel/pseuds/IWasMeantToFeel
Summary: Beca’s going through a hard time at school and home, with her sexuality and her relationship with her father.one night, she doesn’t know what to do other than to call a help line.TW/ homophobic slurs, dead parent, abusive parent. (nothing graphic)





	your mess is mine

**Author's Note:**

> hey everyone! i got such a good reception to my last Bechloe fic that I decided to do another one - a little bit shorter this time!
> 
> we had a talk by Samaritans at school and it inspired me to write this. in case you’re not from the UK and don’t know what Samaritans is - it’s basically a 24 hour call centre where you can call up and talk to someone about any problem you have. a lot of people use it as a helpline if they’re suicidal but it’s literally for anything - they’re there to listen, and they’re not allowed to give advice. idk if there’s an American equivalent of this so I’m just gonna refer to a ‘help line’.
> 
> also, Beca is 18 in this and Chloe is 23.
> 
> title if from 'Mess Is Mine' by Vance Joy.
> 
> make sure to give me feedback if you'd like ;) sorry if there are any typos, please point them out if ya see them...

As soon as Beca gets in the front door, she runs upstairs and locks herself in her room. She catches a glimpse of her dad in the living room, surrounded by beer cans, and she can’t face talking to him. It’ll start with him asking how her day was, and end with him snapping at her. She knows how it goes. School was even worse than usual today, and she doesn’t need another thing to go wrong to add to the horrible mood she’s in.

She pulls off her boots and jacket and sits down in front of her laptop, opening the mix she was working on last night. Her phone keeps vibrating in her jacket pocket, but she ignores it as hard as she can, focussing on the music. She barely even notices her throat constricting and the tears running down her face as she works. She knows what the messages will say anyway.

_Dyke._

_Stalker._

_Should you even be allowed in this changing room?_

_I bet she’s looking at us changing. Hey, Beca, would you like to fuck Rachel?_

_Oooh, she totally would, she’s blushing._

_Creep._

The words echo round her head. She doesn’t know what she did to deserve this kind of treatment - doesn’t even know how everyone found out. It’s a new school and she has no friends yet - everyone in her grade is in a clique already, and they all seem to hate her anyway. She didn’t make much of an effort to socialise, fine, but only because she was scared of this happening - of someone finding out that she’s gay, and everything being ruined. Like what happened last time, at her old school.

She has no idea how people know. Sure, she shares political things on Facebook sometimes, and there are pictures of her at a Pride march. But straight people go to Pride. Straight people can be advocates for LGBT rights, can’t they? It’s not as though she’s closeted. She’s not ashamed, either. It’s just always been easier for her not to bring up this particular part of her personality. Everyone seems to see her as too grungy to be friends with anyway, with her tattoos and piercings. Teachers think she’ll be the class troublemaker, and are genuinely shocked when she gets good grades. She’s been accused of cheating too many times to count.

Her anxiety has skyrocketed at this new school. It’s not like her old one, where she knew a few people in the grade above - Stacie and Jesse - and could escape to spend time with them if anyone was bothering her. There’s no escape here. In the locker rooms today, she tried to change in one of the stalls, so people wouldn’t see the tattoos on her back or make comments about her body, but some cheerleader had approached her and told her, “That’s not how we do things here.” What fucking century was this, anyway? Beca had tried to ignore her but she’d blocked the door, forcing Beca to strip in front of everyone watching. She’d tried to fix her eyes in the distance so she wouldn’t catch anyone’s eye, but that was interpreted as her staring at Rachel, whoever the hell that was, so that hadn’t helped. By last period, the word had got round the entire grade that she was a lesbian. She finds it hard to believe, statistically, that there are no other gay people in her grade. But they’re probably hiding. She doesn’t blame them.

A few hours pass before her dad calls her for dinner. She saves her project and goes downstairs reluctantly. She feels like an argument is brewing. They sit down in front of the microwave meal.

“How was your day, Beca?” he says, slurring slightly.

“Fine,” she says non-committedly, eying the empty bottles by the trash.

“Anything else? Make any friends?”

“Mm,” Beca replies, because that can be interpreted how he wants.

He slams his hand down on the table, hard, making her jump. “Look at me when I’m talking to you! Don’t be so fucking rude.”

She grits her teeth, forcing herself to look into his hardened eyes. “Yes, I made friends,” she says, trying not to sound too venomous.

“What are their names?”

“Someone called…”

“What the hell is that?” he interrupts.

“What?” Beca says, shifting uncomfortably.

“That.” He points at her wrist, where her sleeve has ridden up a little bit, and the bottom of her headphones tattoo is just visible. She’s managed to hide all her tattoos at home. Until now.

“Nothing,” she says quietly, pulling her sleeve down.

“Don’t lie to me,” he spits. “Is that a tattoo?”

“I -”

“Did you get a tattoo, after I specifically told you that I thought there was nothing worse you could do to yourself?” He speaks slowly, as though she’s stupid.

“One of my friends did it, he’s an artist.” She’s referring to Luke, a friend of Jesse’s, who worked in the tattoo parlour in their old town.

“Do you call that art?” He yanks up her sleeve. “That is shit, Beca. That’s on your skin forever, as if you weren’t already hard to look at.” He turns away from her, breathing heavily.

“Dad, I didn’t…”

“Get out!” he yells suddenly, banging the table again. “You know damn well how your mother would feel about this. She would be utterly ashamed of you, Beca, as I am.”

“Mum was -”

“Don’t tell me what my wife was or wasn’t! I knew her better than you ever could. She loved me more than she ever loved you. Now get out!”

Beca looks at his face, and she knows he’s not joking. She’s crying, because she always does when she’s angry, even though she hates when he sees her cry. She turns and flees, grabbing her coat, shoes and phone from her room, then running out of the front door, slamming it behind her. She walks fast, not sure if he’d follow her or not, with no idea where she’s going. She ends up at a children’s playground a few roads away, and climbs the ladder to the metal tower, slumping down at the top in the dark. Her chest is heaving - she’s out of breath from running and from the tears.

She pulls out her phone, ignoring the anonymous texts on her lock screen, and scrolls through her contacts. There aren’t many of them. Dad. Mom. Stacie. Jesse. Luke. School. Help line.

Seeing ‘Mom’ listed in her contacts only makes her cry harder. She hadn’t deleted it. Why hadn’t she deleted it? Her fingers hover over ‘delete contact’, but she can’t bring herself to do it. Instead she calls the number, wondering if she’ll go to voicemail and maybe hear her voice. All she gets is an automated voice, telling her, “This number is not valid.” She hangs up, her hands shaking.

The only number she could call is ‘Help line’. It’s in her phone from a talk they had at school, where they were all encouraged to enter it into their contacts. She knew she’d never use it, but she didn’t want to get into trouble for ignoring instructions. And now, there it is. She takes a deep breath, and dials. It can’t make things worse.

She’s put on hold, of course. As the overly cheerful music plays, she wonders how many upset teenagers are calling this number right now, probably with actual issues, unlike her. She’s not going to be important to anyone. She’s about to hang up, when suddenly the line clicks and a soft voice says,

“Hello, you’ve reached the help line. I’m Chloe. What would you like to talk about?”

Beca sucks in her breath sharply. It’s been months since anyone said anything to her in such a genuinely caring tone. She knows it’s this woman’s job, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect her.

“Is anyone there?” Chloe says.

“Hi,” Beca manages. Her heart has slowed a little, but she still grips the phone, legs shaking.

“Hi,” Chloe says, and her voice is so calming that it’s almost painful. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure,” Beca admits.

“Are you in danger?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so? Can you expand on that?”

“I had an argument with my dad,” Beca says slowly. She’s never talked to anyone about this before. “I thought he was going to hit me.”

“Has he hit you before?” Chloe says, and Beca can hear her trying to keep her voice level.

“Only twice.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m in a playground. He told me to get out so I thought it would be better to leave the house.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Are you scared to go back?”

“Yes,” Beca says slowly. “No. I don’t think he would hurt me. But he’s been so unpredictable recently I don’t really know anymore.”

“I see,” Chloe replies, soothingly. There’s a pause. “Are you scared now? Is it dark?”

Beca looks around. Her legs are going to sleep underneath her, but she focuses on Chloe’s voice instead, taking deep breaths.

“It’s dark. But I’m not scared.”

“Good. I can hear you breathing. Are you panicking?”

“I was. I’m okay now.”

“That’s good,” Chloe says. There’s a silence. “Do you want to talk about anything else? Maybe about your dad? Or if there’s something else going on?”

“Maybe… you could talk to me? To distract me? I don’t know if you can do that but I…”

“Of course. If you think of anything you want to say, be sure to interrupt me, alright?”

“Okay.” Beca settles into a more comfortable position, cradling the phone against her ear.

“What’s your name? You don’t have to answer, of course, but we won’t keep a record. This is all confidential, in case you were wondering. Oops, I was supposed to tell you that when I picked up!”

Beca smiles, because that makes it clear Chloe hasn’t been doing this job long. “My name’s Beca.”

“That’s a lovely name. Okay, well, as you may have gathered I only started this job three days ago. So I’m getting used to things still. The office is full of people having conversations like the one I’m having with you, and I like it. I don’t like silence. Uhhh… this is hard, Beca. I’m not supposed to give anyone personal information about me.”

“I’m not asking you to tell me where you live! Just… anything. What’s your favourite colour?”

“Yellow. What about you?”

“Blue.”

“Favourite animal?”

“Dogs. What’s yours?”

“Red pandas.”

Chloe laughs softly. “Good choice.”

“Have you ever been bullied?” Beca asks suddenly. The wind picks up and she can feel goosebumps all over her body. She hadn’t noticed how cold she was. She shivers involuntarily.

“Are you alright?”

“Just cold.”

“I was bullied in high school. I actually got very popular towards the end of it, but when I was about eleven or twelve, everyone thought I was weird.” Chloe laughs again, but there’s still a bit of hurt in her voice.

“Do you know why?”

“I think they thought I was too clingy. I loved everyone, wanted to be friends with everyone. I think I annoyed people.”

“You wouldn’t have annoyed me,” Beca tells her.

“No?”

“No. Well, I might have pretended to be annoyed by you, but I would have loved a friend like that.” Still would, she thinks to herself.

“Why did you ask, Beca? Are you being bullied?”

“I don’t know if it counts as bullying…”

“What do they do?”

“They call me names and push me around a bit. And I get texts.”

“What kind of names?”

“Like, dyke and stuff.”

“And stuff?”

“They pick on me because I’m gay,” Beca says flatly.

“Oh. How does that make you feel?”

“Angry, mostly. I just don’t really get why people do that. I’m not really any different from them. I just like the same gender. I’ve never understood why people think that’s their business.”

“I agree with you there. How does the bullying make you feel about your sexuality?”

“I don’t want to be straight, if that’s what you mean. I’m happy with who I am. It just makes me angry, and it makes school a horrible place to be.”

“Do you have friends you can talk to about this? A significant other? Or your mom?”

“I don’t have any friends. Never been in a relationship. My mom’s dead.” There’s a silence. Way to kill the conversation, Beca, she thinks, kicking herself internally.

“How long ago?”

“Six months. We moved to a different town last month.”

“I see. Do you like it there?”

“Not really. But it’s kind of nice to… not be where my mom was.”

“I can understand that. Let me tell you something, Beca. I’m not supposed to give you any practical advice, just listen and respond. But I feel like if I was in your position maybe this would help me.”

“Okay…?”

“I figured out I was gay when I was sixteen. Is that about your age?”

“Eighteen,” Beca replies, surprised. She didn’t expect that.

“Okay. Well, what I’m trying to tell you is that it gets better. I promise. I’m not just saying that. People freak out to start with because it’s something new and different, and they don’t know how to cope with that. I’m not saying every homophobic person will miraculously become accepting. But you will find your people, and you’ll find a place where you’re accepted and loved for who you are. It takes time, but it’ll happen. This is only temporary.”

“That does help,” Beca says honestly. “Thank you. It sometimes feels like there’s no way out.”

“I can promise you there is, sweetheart,” Chloe tells her, and Beca’s heart skips a beat at the nickname, because her mom used to call her that. “We’re near the end of our time.”

“Really?” Beca checks the duration of the call on her phone. Half an hour.

“Yes. I’m sorry. I’d talk to you for longer if I could.” Chloe sounds genuinely regretful, but Beca can’t help but feel the panicky feeling descend on her once again at the thought of not being able to talk to her, and having to turn around and go home.

“Are you still there, Beca?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything you need right now?”

Beca laughs quietly. She can think of so many things. A safe home. Friends. A school life that doesn’t suck. Her mom back. Instead she says, “A hug.” She doesn’t know where that came from. She never really liked hugs.

Chloe sighs. “I wish that was something I could give you.”

Beca’s surprised again. This whole conversation has been more personal than she expected. She hopes Chloe won’t get in trouble for it, but she reasons with herself that the calls aren’t recorded.

“That’s okay.”

“I would if I was with you,” Chloe tells her.

“Thank you.”

“I should go now. You can always ring this number again if you need to talk to someone.” Beca can tell she’s going into the automatic spiel. “There’s always someone here, 24/7, and you’re never alone.”

“Will I be able to talk to you again?” Beca asks.

“I… highly doubt it. We get hundreds of calls a day and they’re allocated randomly. The chances are very slim. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I assumed that,” Beca says. She shivers again. “Thank you, Chloe.”

“My pleasure. Stay safe, please, Beca,” the woman says, and Beca knows she’s genuinely concerned.

“I will. I’ll go home now.”

There’s no response. Beca looks at her phone, and finds the screen black. Her battery’s died.


End file.
